


jump upon the sharp swords

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Drinking, First Time Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: none of this was about dylan.  he needs to stop creeping in your thoughts.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	jump upon the sharp swords

**Author's Note:**

> read dahhhmer's fic in the middle of writing and . well. turned out longer than i expected. uploading separately for that reason. but ! i did write this all today ! so still counts for that !
> 
> also i don't normally write long form things in all lowercase. gen thought this was gonna be like 500 words lol. also it's mostly unedited so sorry for any weird grammar or tense stuff

you don't have girls. not in the way you wanted them. you could talk to them fine, chat them up when they came into the store, ask 'em out, watch a movie with them, sure. but you could never _relax_ around them. in fact, as time went on, the only person you could relax around was dylan. 

you don't like thinking about that too hard. it's not like anything would come from it no matter what you did, and it wasn't like you would tell him even if anything would come from it, and there was nothing to tell, and it wasn't even the main issue anything. the issue was-- NBK was closing in, and you could not, no matter what you did, how nice you acted, or anything, find a girl. 

you blamed it on half the girls being christians and the other half having plenty of options. you were too skinny, too weird, listened to music too loud, had the wrong kinda car, whatever it was. 

and so all you have is dylan. 

dylan isn't bad. he also isn't a girl. he never made you feel like girls did, anyway. you looked at a girl, and you understood what she was thinking, understood how to at least have a decent conversation. and sure, you fucked up sometimes, (how were you supposed to know that one chick wouldn't find you fake-suicide-prank funny?) but you learned, adapted, came from different angles for different people. you find it hard to lie to dylan, or to pretend to be anyone else. he was quick at noticing a change in your tone, a skip in your eyes. he knew you well and only ever liked your switching when it got you two out of trouble.

none of this was about dylan. he needs to stop creeping in your thoughts.

you thought about finding a girl and doing whatever the fuck you wanted (you thought about it plenty), but it'd be ten times fucking easier if they _let_ you instead of playing this whole fucking game about it. you never had to do that with dylan. you were both honest with each other at fucking least. girls weren't anything like you and dylan. 

dylan would let you. if he was a girl. hell, it'd solve half your problems if dylan was a girl. you bet he'd let you do all sorts of things-- or she, or whatever. and he'd be cool as fuck, listening to manson with you in your basement, getting drunk off stolen vodka, talking about movies, and guns, and everything else. he'd be the perfect girl. 

though, with a girl like that, you might hold her down for the hell of it. and hey, dylan was into that kinda shit anyway. might be nice to get rough knowing he'd take whatever you made him. 

but dylan is definitely not a girl. you sit next to him in your basement, listening to music too loud, passing a flask back and forth. parents gone, brother gone. house empty except the two of you and whatever horrible thoughts were stuck in your head. 

dylan was obviously none of the lines and ways that made girls up. he didn't move like a girl, or talk like one, or do anything at all to make you think of him as anything thing else. there was no amount of rationalizing why you were still thinking about holding him down. you wonder if he'd let you like this, or if he needed a couple more shots in him-- or if he'd kill you for ever trying. 

he'd probably kill you. well. unless he was asleep. 

and he'd be asleep soon, his eyelids were starting to fall closed for longer and longer every time he blinked. and then, all at once, he was out. 

you waited for a solid five minutes before moving. even when you finally did move, it was slow, deliberate, cautious. if he woke up and found you doing anything-- you couldn't think about it. you touch his arm first, eyes focused on his face, taking note of every single micro-movement, every single breath and twitch. there was a sweet sort of calmness about him when he was asleep, like looking into a childhood photograph. like holding a pond rock in your hands.

you move your hand against his neck, collarbone, under his shirt. he doesn't stir. your heart is beating out of your skin, the music a soundtrack that'll be stuck in your head for the rest of your life. you can hardly breathe for fear of the wrong noise at the wrong time waking him up and exposing the underbelly of the thoughts you keep from even him. but his skin is warm. he's beautifully alive. the feeling of it slips past all your worries, straight to your senses. 

it's everything you could dream it being. small memories, boiled and buried, shoved far into the pit of your stomach, started rising. hard to worry about anything after that. it was the worst wolf of your fears, gnashing teeth right in front of you. and it didn't matter. it felt like nothing. 

your free hand falls on his thigh. he's not at all hard. you're bursting at the seams. you swallow your spit, pull both your hands back. might be easier to get him hard if-- well, you shouldn't be getting him hard at all. this is probably, like, the worst sort of betrayal. you should stop now and never mention it again. you didn't.  
you climbed into his lap (god, he was knocked the fuck out) and sat right in his lap, hands on his shoulders. he's thin, thinner than he's ever been. you can feel the bones of his shoulders under your palms. his head is turned to the side. you place both hands on his face, turn it so he's facing you, if not looking at you. if not seeing you.

you think about kissing him. just like this. isn't violent, it isn't picturing him as someone else. it's him. pure and simple. you lean in (teeth gnashing, wolves circling in your stomach) and you press your lips against his. it's not super-- exciting. it's dylan, yeah. it's definitely something. your gut swoops low, and your hands start to sweat but it's like-- it's like going on the playground swing really high without flipping over. it's being too scared to jump off. 

a crash of frustration comes through you. you can't get his jeans unzipped fast enough, can't get out your own fast enough. and he's asleep. he won't ever know. he won't know what you're thinking and why you're thinking it-- at most he'll have a nice little dream, wake up in a nice euphoric state, and forget all about it.   
you cling to the back of the couch, lift your hips, and realize all at once that not only do you have no idea how to do this, but doing it wrong will most certainly wake dylan up. oh, this was all a very terrible idea. half-naked on your best friend's lap, trying to figure out how to fit his cock inside you. very unfortunate situation. 

you decide, well, you've come this far. there's no way to pretend you aren't definitely at least somewhat gay when your cock is about half an inch from dylan's, which is in your hand, half-hard and warm. there's only one option left, really. 

you move from the couch to the floor, on your knees, one hand on dylan's knee, stabilizing yourself, the other still around his cock. you shouldn't be surprised at how big it is. dylan is a tall guy. he stoops and slouches but he can never completely shrink, especially when standing to you, a whole half-foot shorter. but like this, legs spread in front of you, by you, it's a whole different perspective.

you try to not think about it too much. you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, circle your tongue around the weight. and it's-- it's hard to imagine this as dylan. maybe because he's still asleep, isn't moaning and calling your name above you. you picture his hands in your hair. you close your eyes. you slide your mouth down, letting him fill all the free spaces, all the negative space. you don't hate the feeling. 

you can feel him harden in your mouth, a completely natural response, but you take it personally, would smile if you could. your hand is around your own cock before you can think better of it. and you last much shorter than you would ever admit-- you would never admit to any of this. 

it's just so much. the knowing he's asleep, that you're doing what you'd like to him, that he'll never know-- outside of the pure sensation of having your mouth on him, having him inside you, down your throat, it's so many things at once. you breathe carefully, not moving your head even as your hips jerk forward, your eyes close tighter than ever. it's a miracle you don't bite his dick off, honestly. 

but, afterwards, you're determined to make him come. you're worried about making too much noise, about gagging and losing the ccs of booze in your stomach, but not about much else. you've already taken a leap forward, and you weren't immediately struck down, anything goes from here.

you go slow, breathe through your nose, try to think about the ways girls in porn move their heads. you can't get all of him down your throat (and his hands aren't in your hair), but he's alive and breathing under you, responding in small, almost unnoticeable sighs and whispers. you like to think that he doesn't _want_ to wake up. that he'd be perfectly fine will all of this as long as he doesn't have to see you doing it. a mouth is a mouth, a body is a body. and you're willing to offer yours. your willing to find all the ways he can curl inside you. 

dylan comes before you can think of how to react. you swallow reflexively (which should disgust you) (it doesn't).

you move off him, a mess in more ways that one. you look up and dylan's eyes are still closed, his face just as relaxed as it was before. you lean back on your hands for a long moment, letting the moment wash away, letting yourself breathe in, and out, and in, and out. and then you tuck him back into his clothes, carefully, as gently as you can, a token he won't appreciate. 

you pull your own clothes back on after, sit back on the couch, kick your feet up into his lap, and lean back, stretching out. you're not good at lying to dylan. he'll ask what's wrong eventually. you have no idea what you'll say. 


End file.
